Respect
by Cynthia Arrow
Summary: Post-ep for the season finale. Josh and Donna finally have time to sit down and talk.


Disclaimer: I have no claim on these wonderful characters. They belong to Sorkin, Wells, and whoever else determines their fate.

Rating: T, for a couple of stray curse words.

Note: Thought I'd throw my hat in the ring and write a post-ep to the season finale ("2156(?) Votes"). I love what Wells is doing to rehabilitate Donna's self-esteem, but I wish he'd take a damn minute to deal with it—and let her deal with Josh—on camera. And please suspend your disbelief about the weather. I have no idea when the convention is. I'm making it late summer somewhere south-like.

Respect

There was a note taped to Josh's door when he reached it at 3 a.m. It appeared to be a piece of hotel stationery, judging from the beige color. The outside simply said "J," followed by a long, sloping dash, inviting him to open it.

After he'd shared a beer with the remnants of the Russell campaign, he'd gone to greet the new nominees and had spent hours shaking hands and grinning. He had grinned so much his face hurt. Strangely, as happy as he was, he felt like he hadn't deserved it. Every time he'd given Matt Santos a piece of advice, it had been ignored, and the campaign flourished in a way it wouldn't have if he'd been listened to. If anyone was responsible for the Santos-McGarry nomination, it was not him. Every hand he shook made him keenly aware of that fact, though the congressman—the nominee—never said a word, would never say a word…

He'd contemplated a drink, but he'd been afraid of running into anyone else congratulating the campaign. Of course, he was a little buzzed from the celebratory drinks, but he needed something more than a glass of champaign. Not that it would take a lot to bring him to that level of detachment that would allow him to believe he'd been a good campaign manager and not a colossal ass. Because his guy had won, after all—this long shot from Texas—so he couldn't have been all that detrimental.

"Great. Now I'm down to 'I didn't ruin the campaign,'" he said as he pulled the note off the door. It said: If you've still got any energy, come up to the roof. –D.

Her handwriting was sloppier than he'd ever seen it, but he figured it had taken on an edge with her new responsibility and the insanity of the convention. She was probably too tired or two wired to realize how suggestive her note sounded.

He pulled off his tie and coat and threw them onto the bed in his room. On his way to the elevator, he unbuttoned his shirt and smiled. Donna. Was he nervous? She was a comfortable person to be around, normally. But their relationship had been as far from that normal as he could imagine since the election had started. Or before then, when she'd quit. He hadn't had time to process that with the election in full swing, but he also supposed that he didn't know what to think. And he didn't know what to think about her invitation.

Once he found the door to the roof, he saw that there were a few people out looking at the city, but he knew none of them. Donna was sitting on a stone bench with her back to the ledge, with a bottle and two glasses beside her. She did not see him approach until he was a few yards away. She smiled the smile of the weary. He had seen her smile like that before, but not in such a satisfied way.

"I didn't know you were into exhibitionism," he said when he was standing in front of her.

"What?"

"Your note…if I still have energy…"

"Yeah," she said sardonically, although there was a slight smile pulling up the corners of her mouth. "I've become immune to embarrassment, Josh."

"That's what comes from arguing with a chicken."

"I suppose it does. Gin?"

She gestured to the bottle, and he frowned. "Where did you get that?"

"Celebration stash. I figured I deserved it."

"You been drinking all night?"

"A little. I've been feeling too contemplative to wallow, really. I wanted to be lucid enough to think."

"About?"

She paused and look at him. "Are you drinking?"

"Sure."

She didn't move yet, asking, "Are you going to sit down?"

So he did, noting how cool the bench was in the muggy early morning air.

When she had poured him a generous shot, she handed him the glass and said, "Try not to take this the wrong way—you know, the way you're prone to misinterpreting everything anyone says—but I wish I had been with you."

"Oh?"

"Your team. I make a horrible political operative. Really. I can't work for someone I don't respect. Or, I can, and I feel awful about it."

She was impossible to read, as she often was with him. She was clearly talking about Russell. Or maybe not just Russell. So he said, "Is that why you left the White House?"

Her face revealed a bit of shock and then a lot of contemplation. "No. Yes. I don't know. Do you even care?" She got up and walked to the other side of him, resting her elbows on the ledge. She looked out over the city, glancing at him only out of the corner of her eye.

"Yeah," he said, handing her her glass.

"I left because I didn't respect myself any more. But I guess I'd say I didn't respect you either."

"Okay."

"Or I should say I thought your actions were unrespectable. Is that a word?"

"No."

"Anyway. You're a good man, or else you wouldn't have committed yourself to the world's biggest long shot simply because he had integrity. It was your behavior that sucked."

"Okay."

She finally looked at him. "Are you just going to give me one word answers, Josh?"

"I wasn't aware you were asking me questions."

"I'm not," she said, turning back to the view. A second later, she turned around and leaned her back against the ledge. "Okay, I am now. Why did I have to go to Will Bailey to get someone to take me seriously?"

"I don't know."

"That's bullshit."

"I'm serious. When you have your head up your ass, it's hard to notice anything."

"I could have helped you with the campaign."

He smiled at that idea until he thought about it. "No, you couldn't have. I wouldn't have let you."

"Probably not."

"Of course, that's because I'm an idiot."

"I know."

"Was Will a good boss?"

"Sure. Very much like you, actually. Except his ego is only the size of Rhode Island. And I was working by his side, not under his feet. The problem wasn't Will."

"Oh?"

"Bob Russell is a good enough man, I think. I don't hate him. But he shouldn't be President. Whatever Will told him to do, he did it. His personality didn't come through at all—only the parts of it that his PR people wanted to come through. He didn't believe in those subsidies any more than your guy did. He just…"

"Yeah. We're so used to working for a President who bucks the system whenever possible. You'd think I would be good at dealing with that. But I wanted the congressman to do whatever I wanted him to do."

"He didn't?"

"Did you see my face at nearly every press conference, speech, or appearance we made? He consistently did exactly what I asked him or flat out told him not to do. It makes me wonder why he even needed a campaign manager."

"Well, he got the nomination."

"What does that say about me when he did that without following a single bit of my advice?"

"You two make a good team."

"Donna."

She came and sat down beside him, leaving her glass on the ledge. "Okay. I'm sure you've already told yourself that he wouldn't be here if you hadn't seen something in him."

"That's a bad argument."

"Maybe. But did you think that he saw something in you?"

He frowned at her.

"Managers, assistants…all we do is give advice. We look into our experience and explain what we know to be true. Nobody asks us to be miracle workers."

"But if I consistently give bad advice…"

"If the bad advice, if the wrong course of action, only came out of his own head, would he be able to combat it? No. You voice the things he's already thinking, but because they come from you, he can see them clearly and discover if they match up to the man he wants to be. If you were right all the time, maybe it would be okay, or maybe he'd find a way to ignore your good advice. Wouldn't you rather your candidate ended up with the right course of action than the wrong one, no matter how he got there?"

He smirked at her. "Sure."

"I'm serious. Your ego isn't important here. You got that man a nomination for President of the United States. You were his mirror. You helped him see how he lined up with Washington. That's your job. But you don't really want him to line up perfectly. There's a reason Bob Russell isn't going to be in the oval office."

"Were you always this smart?"

"No, Josh," she said seriously. "I had a good mirror of my own."

Josh was quiet for a moment. Donna's face had been somber, but there was a slight grin now, as if she had just realized what she was saying and perhaps didn't quite believe it. That was okay; he didn't quite believe her either.

"Donna, why did you invite me up here?"

"I need a job."

"Oh?"

"Preferably not under you."

He broke the tension with a wicked smile. "There you go again being suggestive."

She rolled her eyes at him. "I'm serious, Josh."

"I'll see what I can come up with."

"Okay."

She got up and retrieved her glass from the ledge, pouring herself a little more gin. When she was settled on the bench again, he said, "Donna, can I ask you a serious question?"

"Sure."

"When you say I'm like the mirror of Washington, does that mean you think I'm like Bob Russell?"

She shook her head, smiling. "No. You worked for President Bartlet too long to reflect it all that well. That, my friend, is why you and Santos will be a good team."

"Will be?"

"You think he doesn't need his own Leo to completely rely on and completely ignore?"

"I hadn't thought about it."

"Like hell."

"Okay. I have a few hundred times. But that's down the road. We've still got to beat Arnold Vinick."

"Let me know how I can help."

She poured him another generous shot of gin and he grimaced as he took a drink. He was starting to get tired, but he didn't want to leave her company. So they sat there in silence, bleary-eyed and sticky from the humidity. It had been a long time since he'd been so peaceful… except for the part of his brain that was working on making a job for Donna.


End file.
